


resolution

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dry Humping, Dry Sex, F/F, Hate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, only kinda but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra Pentaghast seems to have a problem with the Champion's arrival at Skyhold. Hawke decides it's about time they resolve their issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	resolution

**Author's Note:**

> self-indulgent pwp? yes. self-indulgent pwp

It’s not like Hawke is out to get her or anything. She just keeps catching her staring, and so it becomes a little hard not to antagonise her about it.

When what will eventually be the top floor of the requisitions office is completely empty save for the two of them, both Cassandra and Hawke come to terms with the fact that they’re going to have to discuss it. And  _ Cassandra _ is finding it a little difficult, because the Champion is leaning on the desk, and the top few buttons of her shirt are unfastened, and she’s got eyes like the sea. She’s got to be doing that on purpose.

“Are you trying to imagine what’s under my clothes, or do you just  _ really _ hate me?” Hawke asks, raising an eyebrow as the corner of her mouth draws up in a smirk that implies she knows the answer. 

Cassandra scoffs, her cheeks burning as she forces herself to look away. “Neither, actually.” As she takes in a breath and squares her shoulders, she turns back to look at Hawke and is at least relieved she’s straightened up. “You should know well enough that I don’t hate you. But we could have used your assistance with this months ago. If you’d been here…”

“If I’d been here, it wouldn’t have gone any differently. And you might have a dead Champion on your hands,” Hawke says coolly, her expression somewhere between sympathy and amusement as she crosses to stand on the same side of the desk as Cassandra, leaning against it a little. “I’ve already agreed to help you, Seeker. You can’t change the past. Whatever issue you’ve got with me goes far beyond what I could have done a few months ago. So what is it?” 

“I don’t  _ have _ an issue with you, Hawke.” Cassandra’s voice comes out hard and angry, which is rather ironic considering she’s trying to convince Hawke she’s got no problem with her. At least she’s not looking away anymore; her eyes burn sharp and kohl-framed into the mage’s, and Hawke breaks from the desk to approach her, grinning in a way that comes off almost feral.

“You’re a shit liar. It drives you mad, doesn’t it?” She demands acknowledgement, demands answer, somehow holding a presence greater than Cassandra’s despite being a good few inches shorter. “You couldn’t find me. And that had nothing to do with Varric lying. I didn’t want to be found, and my will was stronger than yours. It’s that simple. You think you failed.”

She smells like pine and leather, and a hint of roses, and Cassandra simultaneously wants to snarl and to flee. “We found the Inquisitor. We managed  _ without _ you,” she growls.

“So why does it bother you that I’m here now?” Hawke comes  _ closer _ , too close. If she moved further forward, they’d be nose to nose. The details of her face are evident from here -- the kaddis streak across her nose beginning to flake a bit after a full day, the ocean-spray colour of her eyes, the freckles across her cheekbones. Cassandra can’t look at any part of her and feel secure in it. “What do you want? You made your mistakes. Own them.”

Cassandra grabs her shirt and kisses her. She doesn’t know why she does it, at first, besides that she just  _ wants _ to. When she thinks the noise Hawke makes is protest or maybe threat, she pulls back and stares into her eyes. Neither of them have softened their gazes even one bit. She raises an eyebrow.

“Seeker?” Hawke didn’t lose her derisive grin for one second.

“You were teasing me on purpose,” Cassandra says, as if it explains everything easily. She thinks that if she keeps it at that, they won’t have to get into the logistics of what just happened.

“Sure was,” Hawke says. She hasn’t looked away even once, and though her hands landed in their surprise on Cassandra’s breastplate, she slides them down to a better location. She’s looking for parts the armour doesn’t cover. “I wanted us to work out our issues. You think this is a start, Seeker?”

Cassandra should be disgusted.  _ This _ is the Champion of Kirkwall herself, the valiant mage who fought through the rampant adversity in her city to try to secure rights for her fellow mages, for the poor of her city, for the neglected. She cut down corruption where it stood and, through her own hard work and heroism, made a name for herself. Now she’s at Skyhold, and she’s all instigation and wild grin and sacrilege.

Cassandra should be disgusted, but she’s mostly just unseasonably warm.

She can practically feel how smug Hawke is when she kisses her again, roughly, one hand pushing her hair out of the way as the other grips her shirt. Right now, she’s giving Hawke  _ exactly  _ what she wants, and she knows it, and she still can’t bear to stop. The fulfilment of passion, whether it leans toward love or hate, demands to be had. It’s the kind of base need she should have been trained out of a long time ago, but maybe that’s the problem. You can only ignore something like that for so long before it comes back, angrier.

_ Hawke _ comes back angrier, fiercer, and suddenly she’s turning Cassandra around and backing her against the desk, her tongue in her mouth. Her hands slip around to find the buckles of Cassandra’s breastplate, fumbling with them. When she breaks the kiss, it seems for a second like she’s going to say something. Then the clasp comes undone and she’s pulling the armour off and letting it drop on the floor, catching Cassandra’s protest with her mouth suddenly at her throat.  _ The armour will survive, _ she tells her, with her teeth grazing the side of her neck, her hands sliding up under her shirt. That’s when Cassandra forgets about it, really.

Her own hands are trying to find purchase somewhere on the Champion’s person but unable to stay anywhere long, and the thin fabric of her shirt leaves little to the imagination when it comes to touch. When she slides her fingers up over her breasts, she can feel every contour of them beneath, and her --  _ Maker’s breath, _ her thoughts scatter as Hawke’s hands grope at her breasts and she bites into her throat. Cassandra hardly recognises the little sound she makes as her own voice.

Then they’re kissing again, so hard that she knows her lips will be a little sore from it later, and Hawke has got her on the desk. She’s straddling her, settling over one leg, and her fingers are firm as they find new territory. One of her hands grabs for Cassandra’s hip as the other slides up to grab at her jaw. They part for breath, both starved for it at this point, and Hawke whispers, “Still need resolution, Seeker?”

Cassandra narrows her eyes. “Yes. I do,” she growls, her modesty lost, and pulls Hawke closer in by her hips before their lips meet again.

Hawke moans into her mouth, low and unashamed, and rolls her hips slowly, grinding against Cassandra’s leg. It’s base, needy, rough, and Cassandra’s fingers dig into her skin, holding her there tightly. In seconds Hawke’s hand falls from her face and when it slips back under her shirt, the other falls further, her fingers sliding down between Cassandra’s legs. Even over her leggings the response is immediate, a surge of heat and a gasp as she pulls back, then presses her mouth to Hawke’s throat to encourage her through kiss after soft kiss.

The lantern-light marks all of the shadows on them, but it feels just about right; Hawke’s pace remains slow and steady, her breath hot as she grinds against her, fingers almost agonisingly light in touch as they stroke. When Hawke moans again, Cassandra stops being patient and pushes up against her hand, letting out a growl as she tugs her closer again, one of her hands sliding to her front and up her shirt.

The Champion lets out a sound that must have been part of a chuckle, seemingly amused by her insistence, and presses harder -- her fingers circle where they are, a little more quickly now. The hand Cassandra has at her hip guides her, supports her as she ruts against her, and then they’re  _ both _ panting, fingers too rough on one another, eyes shaded or closed in the dim light. Soon Hawke’s pace is faltering, her fingers not holding their pace as her breath comes out in rough, shaky sounds. Cassandra’s wrapping her arms around her again and digging her fingernails into her back, protesting the slowing of her fingers in a whimper as she thrusts up against her.

“ _Keep going,_ ” she insists, her voice breathless and desperate, clawing at Hawke until the woman catches her shaky breath and starts again. She’s merciful, solid, palming at Cassandra’s leggings -- damp now, _damn_ it -- and pressing rough kisses to her throat. “Yes -- _yes_ …” Cassandra is nigh undone, bucking against Hawke’s hand in uneven rhythm, unable to catch her breath long enough to feel anything but the white-hot pleasure enveloping her.

When it happens, she bites into her bottom lip to keep her moan quiet and tastes blood, her whole body shivering with ecstasy, wave after wave. Hawke is there, holding her steady, and then she’s not.

She’s already straightening her shirt and running a hand through her hair by the time Cassandra catches her breath, and it is like nothing ever happened, except for the rosiness of her lips and cheeks. She quirks an eyebrow. “If you still have trouble with me,” she says evenly, “I’d be happy to talk again sometime.”

Cassandra’s alone in the room before she has the wherewithal to curse Hawke’s name.


End file.
